Not all who ramble are lost…

Month: March 2018

I woke up early yesterday morning. I had been paying attention to the weather forecast before going to bed and I knew that I would have to snowblow. I woke up extra early to clear the paths. Of course, there was no snow.

I decided to make some roti for breakfast out of one of my favorite cookbooks. I adjust the recipes to my kids tastes and share my adjusted recipes in person, but still feel somewhat hesitant to share recipes online that have too strong a basis on someone else’s work, so kudos to you Mr. Solomon. If it makes you feel better, Mr. Solomon, I often recommend people buy your book before I give them the recipe.

Anyway, my less spicy roti were prepared about half an hour before the kids were supposed to get out of bed. I heated up my pan, prepped the dough, and tossed the first roti on the pan to cook with what I imagine was an ironic look of satisfaction on my face. I ruined the first roti, which promptly wiped that smug look off of my face.

You see, I never flatten my roti flat enough on my first attempt. Every single time I make this recipe I refuse to remember that I ruined the first roti of the last batch. So, I make a super thick roti which is doughy in the middle and burnt on the outside. I then proceed to be my depression-era grandmother’s grandson. In other words, yesterday I ended up dunking my burnt/raw roti into my coffee to make it palatable while my kids and wife ate proper roti with homemade jam.

I never learn. Well, I should say that I am trying to learn through a very basic idea, but I will probably burn the roti at least once more. I have begun a cooking journal that I keep in my kitchen. When I try out a new recipe, adjust a recipe, or even just adjust a cooking method, I write down what I am doing in my notebook with an explanation as to why I have done what I have done.

I’m doing this for at least three reasons. First, I want to learn to be a better cook. I know that I have a tendency to be a bit of kinesthetic learner, so cooking the recipes is a good first step towards learning to cook them with excellence. Practicing helps me to learn, but so does the very act of writing out the recipe, the adjustments, and the reasoning behind what I have done on a given day. I become more intimately connected with my cooking by my writing in my cooking journal.

An excerpt from my cooking journal…

Second,I occasionally get something completely right. The other week I was working off of a recipe for cucumber salsa from one of my preserving books when I realized that half of the ingredients I needed were locally seasonal, were hard to come by in the middle of winter, and were completely out of stock. Rather than give up, I decided to start substituting for the missing herbs and peppers. I went way off of the chartered course with a basic knowledge of the necessary ph-balance for the canning method I intended to use. The salsa turned out fantastic. I write down my cooking methods, especially when wandering afield, so that I can recreate the accidental inspirations later.

Third, I know that my cooking will be a part of my children’s memory of my life. I want my kids to know how I made that one meal, to see how I tended to experiment with herbs, and to be aware that not everything I made turned out perfectly. I hope that they will not only have a record of how I cooked one day, but also the opportunity to create alongside me even after I pass away.

All of this being said, there is a distinct possibility that what is true of my cooking journal should be seen as true of my personal journal. Yes, I will leave my kids some of the poetry I wrote in notes. Yes, they will likely be able read some version of this blog. Yes, I am almost certain that there will be copies of my sermons kicking around in some dusty corner or another. All of this is true, but my journal is partially a record of my soul’s journey. They may not be able to know all of the circumstances, but the journal could be another piece of the puzzle for them to riddle out after I am gone.

Yes, I can try to remember when I make a spiritual breakthrough without writing down a record. There have been many points in my past where I have learned something powerful in my spiritual life that has moved me deeply. Just like baking, there’s a certain part of me that remembers when I learn something. I remember the first time I learned that I could make a bagel without a hole that was just as tasty! Still, there’s the lesson of the roti. Just because I learn something does not mean I will remember learning it later. A physical journal can become a repository of the things that I have learned even if I forget them for a season.

Yes, I can learn kinesthetically through some of the spiritual disciplines. Yes, I can have fond memories of my time engaging in physical worship in places like my seminary campus, the churches I have served, and the Academy for Spiritual Formation in Malvern. Yes, I can remember praying in Convention centers and in District Offices, but there is a power behind the kinesthetic action of writing in a journal. To reenter the same story every time that I write in the same book is to create a powerful kinesthetic bond between this spiritual practice and my spiritual life.

There are many reasons to journal both in one’s personal life and in the kitchen. I hope that is evident by this point in the post, Regardless, dear reader, if you have come this far, please feel free to join in my laughter. I know that my daughter actually believes the recipe I prepped for breakfast this morning calls for the ingredients in that recipe over there. She even copied the recipe into her handmade cookbook. Someday she will realize I threw in more cinnamon and nutmeg as well as substituted pure maple syrup for brown sugar.

“Hey, Pastor Rob! What does a pastor do when it isn’t Sunday morning? You don’t just work an hour a week, do you?”

Well, no, intrepid reader—I don’t just work one hour a week. Like many other clergy, as a pastor I do a lot of things behind the scenes. Some of them are often quite boring. Did you know who often gets called on to get that basket from the top shelf in the kitchen when there’s a church meal? Yeah, that’s me. Do you know who often takes first crack at getting the sink running again in the bathroom? Yup, that’s me. Do you know who sits in on most of the meetings as a resource, resident theologian, and guide? Yeppers.

I do a lot of things from preparing messages and Bible studies, to working towards completing my work with the Academy for Spiritual Formation through readings and covenant agreements, to writing notes and letters, to praying for a brighter future, and working to make those dreams a reality. A lot of what I do has to do with the future, but occasionally I am gifted with the ability of fulfilling the promises of the past.

This morning I walked into a worship service at a Nursing Home. Years ago, nearly three of my lifetimes ago, a pastor baptized a child on a Sunday morning and spoke about the role of the church in caring for this child of God. Today, in his stead (I can safely say “his” given the time-period of her baptism), I came into a worship service and pulled up a chair with a saint who lived out her life in the midst of her church.

She did not like to sing in public, so sitting by her side, I sang on her behalf to tunes on a CD player recorded at least two keys down from the way they are written in our hymnal. I coped (poorly, I’m afraid) with the shift and sung for and with the other ladies in the room. Everyone looked at me at one point or another. It was then that I realized that I not only had the youngest voice in the room, but I had the only male voice. To reference one of my favorite silly movies, I brought us down a whole octave!

We prayed together, I listened to the sermon, and I shared communion with all of the wonderful women gathered in that place. After the service I introduced myself to the chaplain, paid similar compliments to the ones I hear Sunday morning, met my church member’s friends, and then walked her back to her room for a chat.

It seems silly, but as I look back on all of the small things that I did today for the ministry, that moment of sitting with this saint (in the role of pastor and as fellow human on the same path) was probably one of the most sacred things that I did today. Yes, I made a few encouraging phone calls. Yes, I provided dinner for my family. Yes, I prepared for meetings tomorrow night and I did visit other folks in other facilities, but there was something sacred about sitting with a parishioner with no greater expectation than to be with her for a few minutes as we worshipped side by side. There is something holy about being present on behalf of a community that is simply holy.

I hope that my parishioner knows how sacred I found our time together today. In fact, I think I may just have to end this blog post to go write a letter!